“No, I don’t expect you can. But then I am far older than you. Give it time.”
I was annoyed at that. “We don’t have time. Myrin’s—”
“Myrin can wait. For now. Sam. The woods. What—”
“I don’t—”
“You do,” he snapped. “Don’t play coy with me, boy. It’s not a good look on you, and I’m not the fool you seem to take me for. The Grimoires.”
I slumped in the chair. “Man, I thought we were done being serious and morose. Then, once I was feeling sufficiently good about myself, I was going to go have sex with my boyfriend, maybe eat some cheese, and then go to sleep.”
“There are more important things than postsex cheese.”
“That’s certainly not true.”
“You have them? Morgan’s. Myrin’s. Your own.”
I nodded.
“Did you open them?”
“Only mine when GW had me work on it.”
“He hates it, doesn’t he.”
I grinned. “So much.”
Randall looked like he was fighting a smile. Or having a small stroke. “Why?”
“What?”
“Why didn’t you open the other two?”
I decided to be as honest as possible. “It hurt too much.”
“Morgan’s.”
“Yeah.”
“And Myrin’s?”
“Too angry.”
“I don’t blame you for that.”
“You don’t?”
“No.”
“Oh. Well. Thanks. I guess.”
“But you’re going to have to.”
I sat up straight in the chair, my skin clammy. “Why?”
“Because you need to see. The past. The future.”
“That’s… vaguely ominous. No thank you.”